


Cry to Dream Again

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fisting, Dark Side Rey, Drowning, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Jedi Ben Solo, Monsterfucking, Pegging, References to Animal Abuse, Rough Sex, canon remix, dark themes, the Force as mutagen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23133724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Searching for Luke, Jedi Ben Solo finds someone, something, else on Ahch-To.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26
Collections: Reylo Pegging Fics, Teratophilia Trade 2020





	Cry to Dream Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NekoMida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoMida/gifts).



> Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,  
>  Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.  
>  Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments  
>  Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices  
>  That, if I then had waked after long sleep,  
>  Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,  
>  The clouds methought would open and show riches  
>  Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,  
>  I cried to dream again. — The Tempest, 3.2

The first time little Ben Solo heard one of the voices, he was four and chasing R2 in a game of tag, hurtling around the senatorial suite. They took a corner too fast, he tripped over the droid and sent it flying into his mother's beloved fish tank. R2 bounced off, chirping in distress. At the impact, Ben imagined what would happen if the tank cracked, then broke open. His mom would be _so mad_ : "You can't touch them. These aren't pets, Ben, they're part of Alderaan's zoological heritage..." As he finished blinking, the tank bulged toward him, cracks radiating and lengthening. R2 scooted backwards as the tank burst. A white-and-saffron regentfish spilled out with the water and flopped at his feet. One huge orange eye fixed on him. Lacy pink gills swelled. It was dying.

 _You did that!_ a man said somewhere from right behind Ben. _Powerful boy, well done._

He whirled, but saw no one.

_Touch it._

He'd always wanted to touch the fish. He longed to know what they felt like. They moved so beautifully, trailing elegant fins, their scales catching glimmers of light. So he did, now, holding the fish in one hand and pulling off her large scales like petals off a flower. The fish gurgled as it struggled. Its eyes wheeled, then dulled and stilled.

Ben kept plucking the scales. They were prettier than any sequin on his mom's gowns. They were _his_.

"Thank you," he told the man when he remembered his manners.

When the voice chuckled indulgently in response, Ben went warm all over.

Later, when he was punished, no one believed that he'd had permission.

They never did believe him, not in all the years that followed. Sometimes his voice — _call me 'master' or Grampa, whatever you like_ — helped him hide the evidence. More often, however, it helped him misbehave (set fires, tickle a classmate until he cried and wet himself, tease a Yavin ichor-sucker until it fainted from lack of air), only to abandon him when consequences came due.

 _You ought to cover your tracks better,_ it told him. _Learn from this._

This was how Ben learned that no one could be trusted. Not his family, which kept punishing him for things he didn't really mean to do, not his friend, who always disappeared.

This was how Ben learned to hide. He got very good at that.

Then, when he was 14, the voice stopped. _Farewell, m'boy._

Its silence was louder than any scream. 

He waited a year and a half, hoping it would return, then actively searching for it. He did everything he could to find it again — redoubled his studies with Luke, grew to excel at meditation and Force-touching, even took glitterstim a couple times with that wastoid ne'er-do-well Dameron, all for naught. (Once, twitching and giggling with Dameron, Ben could have sworn he heard a little girl laughing in the room with them, but Dameron just smirked at him.)

Nothing worked. For a while, he felt the voice's absence like a missing tooth, a cold pain where none had been before, but even that faded.

Ben was well and truly alone now. New fires and novel torments for the smaller students did distract him, but he didn't even get caught any longer. He was too good at hiding for that now. At least when his mother gave him that tight-mouthed pleading look, she had been thinking of him. Now that he had a padawan braid and glowing reports, she didn't need to. His father clapped him on the shoulder and said a lot of things about pride and family and tradition. Luke pushed him to do more, always more. Nothing Ben did was enough.

*

Twelve years later, Luke disappears while searching for Jedi artifacts that might be useful to bring down Hux's First Order.

"Find him," his mother says when she dispatches Ben on the mission. She has returned to the barracks, shedding any pretense at politics and diplomacy. He sympathizes with that; force is just so much more efficient than compromise. "Bring him home."

He lets her hug him. Rests his cheek against the crown of her skull and breathes in her perfume. "Yes, Mommy."

*

There is no trace of Luke anywhere in the Force. Ben tries every method, legitimate as well as illicit, as he did in the past searching for his friend's voice. Luke simply is no longer _here_. He isn't dead; death exists in the Force, too. Luke is just absent.

There are Force-maelstroms just outside Hutt space. Scholars of Luke's acquaintance consider them blowback from the FO's activities. "Pain and fear, death and despair," Ben's mother has said. "They might as well be blood on linen. Unmistakable."

He doesn't find Luke there. There are populations under subjugation, screaming for help, but that isn't his mission. He turns next to a desert planet and one of Luke's old boyfriends. Lor San Tekka gives him a map fragment as well as some garbled advice about illusion and pride or something like that. The survivors of his parents' generation can't help themselves with the advice, with dispensing hard-won wisdom and life lessons. They do it, Ben has always assumed, in order to have yet more reason to scoff at the new generation and their selfishness.

*

Using Tekka's map, Ben heads to Ahch-To. He brings his fighter down at sea level, then climbs the steps to the summit. It takes hours. His shadow lengthens, then skews off the cliff edge, as he climbs.

At the top, the grass is a brilliant green, unlike anything else in this salt-tossed world. At the far edge of the small plateau, Luke waits for him. His beard is overgrown, his robes uncharacteristically ragged.

"Uncle," Ben says.

Luke watches him with dark eyes but doesn't say anything. As Ben approaches, Luke's expression resolves into something stricken, panicked. He shakes his head, but still says nothing.

"Uncle?"

Luke's eyes widen. He's pleading with Ben, but for what?

His mouth is sewn shut with ragged black fibers, more like thorns and woody vine than filament.

"Uncle!"

As Ben reaches to grab Luke's shoulder, Luke starts to crumple. A blue lightsaber blade pierces him from behind, in the gut, then upward. Luke is a vision, a fading image on threadbare fabric, and it tears apart before flying away.

In its place, there's a girl. She wears a black robe, she holds Anakin Skywalker's lightsaber, and when she smiles, showing a dimple, she has too many teeth, multiple rows, of metallic fangs. 

"Hi, Ben," she says and sticks the lightsaber back in her belt. "Took you long enough to get here."

"Who are you? _What_ are you?"

"Nobody," she says. "But not to you. To you, I'm about to be everything."

He draws his own lightsaber and presses her back to the edge of the cliff. He hasn't lost a duel, virtual or physical, since he was twelve. He's fast, and strong, and his connection to the Force is unparalleled, so he can anticipate the other's movement and strategy.

She laughs, the sound rising above the noise of the sea below, and somersaults sideways, her lightsaber drawing a horizontal line just over his knees. She lands on one foot and jabs again, the heat of her saber sizzling against his cloak. For a moment, frozen like this, she is a bird of prey, something wide-winged and long-necked and vicious, native to this rock, and _hungry_.

He breaks back and shifts his stance. She chases him, then, somehow, draws him in a circle. They move round and round, like an old sorcerer's mandala built by their feet. 

She fights like no one he's ever seen, ever even heard of. Conscious of the severe limitations of his own training, Luke strove to ensure that his students learned everything they could of past masters and their foes. In simulations, Ben has fought Asajj Ventress as well as Naga Sadow and even Beldorion, the Hutt Jedi.

This girl is nothing he can recognize. There is no training in her movement, no hints in her style. She pursues and harasses, never feints and deigns to parry; she is determined to win and nothing else. She's a predator, not a fighter.

He's breathing heavily, his face bleeding, when he trips on a slippery upswell of pebbles that he would _swear_ wasn't there a moment ago. Faster than he can blink, she's on him, and he is splayed prone, and she fills his vision.

Her lightsaber blinks down and she presses the hilt against his chin, then his bleeding mouth.

"Who are you?" he asks again. 

"Friend of a friend. An old friend." 

She takes his lightsaber from his hand. Horrified, he watches her do it. He has to stop her. But his grip is slack and he cannot do anything to change that. 

Cocking her head, she studies the hilt of his lightsaber. "Cute," she says.

"Give it back."

She breaks it in half with just one hand. It snaps in her fist. "This? No."

 _Your lightsaber is your life, it is your mission and your heartbeat_ : Anakin Skywalker was hardly the first to tell his padawan that. Ben has seen the footage countless times, he knows the line by heart, and he always believed them, fully, until now.

Because as she straddles him and lets the pieces rain over his chest, the sky painting light around her dark figure, he doesn't feel rage or even sorrow at the loss. He feels _relieved_.

She offers him a hand and helps him up. He stumbles again, unsure of his own body. 

"Come close," she says and throws back her hood. She's beautiful. Sometimes the shadows on her skin look like scales, sometimes like feathers. She shrugs her robes off her shoulders.

Ben starts to look away. She yanks his face forward with the Force and holds his eyes open.

When her robe parts, shadows spill out. They unfurl, gather volume, expand, and reach for him. She shoves him back, against an outcropping, then aside, so he staggers. He catches himself, but she pushes again, lifts him off his feet and drops him on his back.

Because she moves so fast and does so much nearly simultaneously, he can barely track what she's doing — she is as physically strong as he is, though much slighter, but she is also upending him and tossing him about with the Force. It comes at him from different angles, hauls his arms up and binds his wrists, loops around one ankle and secures it.

"Stay," she says over her shoulder as she disappears down the hill.

*

There are dead things here, the size of small humans but thicker-bodied on spindly avian legs. Skinned, they hang on a line by the girl's hut like an overgrown holiday decoration. When the wind blows, the bodies knock each other and ring hollowly.

As night falls, she builds a fire and roasts one of the bodies over a spit.

Ben is still bound with vines as well as the Force. His arms are over his head, his legs spread painfully wide.

"Who are you?" he asks again when she approaches him. Her head is cocked at an angle that ought to be impossible unless her neck is broken.

"Who are you? What are you?" she parrots.

His vision wavers. "I am a Jedi master, like my mother and uncle and grandfather before me."

"Guess they weren't much for the _celibacy_ part of the deal, were they?"

He doesn't know what to say to that. 

She pauses behind him. Her breath is cold on the back of his neck. She gropes him, buttocks first, then around to his crotch.

"But you are, aren't you?"

He closes his eyes. The sky's brilliance glows again behind his lids.

She's in his head. Just like that, here she is. He feels her pushing in like a determined shoot after soaking spring rains, making room for herself. She watches his memories, sees him fail to get it up with a few different professionals, shakes her head at his attempts to get himself off, smacks her lips while he humps the bed.

"You are," she says and bites his shoulder. "Good."

The thing holding him upright snaps then. He falls to his knees and she kicks him in the kidney before retreating to check the roast.

"What do you want from me?" he asks. He is hoarse, the smoke stings his eyes.

She bites at a length of sizzling meat and chews, open-mouthed, staring at the fire. She gives no sign of having heard him.

 _Remember me?_ an old, familiar voice says.

He starts, shouts, but then she's laughing at him. Both of her, the figure across the fire as well as in his skull. From in there, she says, _You miss him._

He tries not to respond.

 _You do,_ her voice says again while the girl across from him sucks her fingers clean of grease. The sight of her mouth on her hand, her cheeks hollowing and lips full and pursed, makes him choke on heat and look away. _He taught me that, too._

He doesn't want to understand what she's saying, even as she pops her fingers free with a wet smack and slides down the log closer to him.

 _My grandfather, my father,_ she says, _was your grandfather's master._

"Obi-Wan?" he whispers.

She slaps him backhanded, right across his face, and rakes claws down his throat. He goes to shove her away, first physically, then with the Force, but he can't. He tries again. He can't move. Nothing stirs, no matter how much he strains.

"Don't sprain something," she says derisively.

"Why...?" He can hardly breathe, let alone speak. His lungs crinkle drily.

"Why'd I hit you?"

He nods.

"I like hitting you," she says simply, and does it again.

His mouth opens, then cracks shut, as pain radiates over his face and down his chest. It joins the heat of arousal. They're the same thing. When he exhales, his nose is bleeding.

"I expect obedience," she says. "Know your place."

"Palpatine?" he grinds out when he finally understands.

The girl is in his lap now, knocking him back close to the fire. Her voice joins the older one: _Darth Sidious._ The name and title echo within his skull, sink right into the roots of his teeth.

The firelight catches the tips of her fangs.

Ben asks, "What's my place?"

She pounces on him. 

"Right here," she whispers, fangs grazing his lips, "under me."

Her eyes are bottomless fire, her expression avid, her double rows of teeth glittering and sharp. When he uses the Force to try to push her off, she laughs, head thrown back, robe and shadows flapping backward like ragged wings.

"You don't want me to stop."

"Get off me," he says.

She cocks her head at that inhuman angle and licks her lip. Her tongue bleeds from her teeth; soon her mouth is smeared with blood. "Kiss me first."

He twists in the grip of the Force, closes his eyes, seeks calm. But she's everywhere, atop him, around him, breathing into his mouth. Her voice hums around his brainstem — _you want this, you've always wanted this_ — while her mouth closes on his, suction-tight, and her tongue plunges in, again and again, shoving against his own, filling him to choking. He's never felt anything like this, such complete touch, and it makes him groan. He is hollow with need, everywhere she isn't kissing him.

 _Yes,_ she says inside his head, and the other voices agree: both grandfathers in their buzzing chorus. _Keep going. Whatever you want, you can have._

His erection throbs against the fasteners on his breeches. His fingers curl helpless above their invisible bond. He pants and whines when she pulls off his mouth to grin down at him. They're both coated with blood and sweat.

He sees himself reflected in the flames in her eyesockets. He's a scrap, a slip of meat and skin, inconsequential against her grandeur.

She rocks her hips against him, riding his waist and bucking up and down. He feels slick, sticky skin, overheated, against his own. Her arousal smells like burned sugar and soaked kelp. He licks the blood off his mouth and starts to ask.

She has her hand in his hair and she twists it like a topknot as she clambers up and drops herself onto his mouth. He cannot breathe and he is blind; she is endless here, too, a yearning maw and spinning heat.

Ben grew up on his father's tall tales of wild space, the Kessel run and how he flung a summa-verminoth into a gravity well. Only now does he understand that his father told the truth. This is what that run was like, falling and falling, hungrily chasing dark entities and pleasure. His father did it with the _Falcon_. Ben accomplishes the same with a screaming mouth and searching tongue.

She's a furnace, the first and hottest and darkest fire, smothering him. She grinds until his jaw cracks, then grinds harder, bucking side to side, popping one side of his jaw out of joint. She comes several times in long jets and rapid ooze that clog his nose and fill his throat.

When she lifts off him, his nose is numb, his jaw aching, and it hurts to breathe. His bonds are as tight as ever.

She uses one shadowy claw to cut off the rest of his clothing. The ruins of his robe flap in the wind just like Luke did — empty, superfluous, easily shed and forgotten.

"What are you?" She squats over him.

"A Jedi," he replies, "like my mother and uncle and grandfather before me."

"Same old, same old," she scoffs.

His penis is traitorously hard and exposed. He thinks of her teeth, then, how they'd feel on his most delicate skin, and shudders.

"Maybe," she says and traces small curlicues with a claw around his nipples. They peak and hurt. "Good boy. You need to be good."

"I am," he insists.

"You're not," she says and pinches one nipple while wrapping her hand around his penis and squeezing. "You never were."

"...I got better," he says finally.

She kisses him again, fangs and tongue, then draws back so quickly he shouts in protest. His shaft fills her fist and she jerks him, fast and hard, watching his face with great interest.

"Better at pretending," she muses. "I suppose that mattered, to other people."

They were all relieved when he stopped misbehaving. His mother worried, of course, but the rest of the family accepted it for what it looked like: a powerful boy, high-spirited, finally maturing a little and learning to consider others.

His balls are drawn tight against his body. The roots of his dick radiate across his nerves, down to his knees and up to his diaphragm. He needs to come, he needs relief, he needs —

 _Me,_ she says in his head and she's right, he does. 

"Please," he whispers aloud. 

"Don't come yet."

"Please."

She pinches the other nipple between two claws and laughs at him. Her grasp on his penis loosens to nearly nothing, an aching hint of what he could have.

"My Lady," he tries, and thrusts into the cold night air. "Please."

She uses the Force to flip him over, as easily as someone else might brush a lock of hair from their eyes. He crashes onto his knees and elbows. He can get away, he knows he can, he must, if he could just think clearly —

"No," she says out loud, "there's nowhere for you to go, no one to take you back. You know that."

"Of course there is, there's —" He stops. Clear as morning light, in his mind's eye he sees his mother turning away in grief. Sees Luke shaking his head. Sees his father shrugging, like _what can you do?_ "There must be."

"There's me," she says. "You've never been happier. Not since you were a kid. Have you?"

"Happiness isn't the point. It's insignificant."

"Not for you," she croons, straddling him, petting his hair. "You deserve it. You always have."

She understands him. he'd thought he was broken, especially after the voices stopped. He wasn't. He never was.

"Please," he says now, raising his ass and spreading his knees. "Please."

"Oh, well," she says, before pausing to bite and suck at the nape of his neck. Her fangs break skin, he bleeds for her, he grunts at the ease and necessity of it. She lifts her head and continues, "if you insist. What do you want?"

She makes him say everything. She refuses to let him hide. Pretense died well before Luke ever did.

"Break me in," he says. "Take what you want."

"I always do." 

Her claws twist in his hair and scrape his scalp as she slaps his ass a couple times, then uses the Force to breach and slick him up. It's rough, impersonal, yet already he's groaning for her. 

She fucks him with a fist and her mouth, leaving him to rut against the ground. He thrusts his penis into gravel and embers, yowls and begs for more, pushes back onto her wrist.

There's a skull blackening in the fire, several centimeters from his face. It watches him beg, its grin widening as he shakes and spasms and comes with a howl.

*

She leaves him there overnight, kneeling prone, cheek in the fire's coal.

In the morning, there is a cloudless sky and her, standing over him. She shifts between forms — a pretty young woman with small, round breasts and muscled build — a black bird of prety — jawless fish and scuttling dragon — all at once, a cacophony of mutation.

He gazes up at her. Adoration and disgust war within him. 

"C'mon," she says, lifting him to his feet and pushing him down the incline toward the sea.

*

She bathes.

There are too many limbs there, and they reach at conflicting angles, bend back at unexpected joints, shift and blur together or click apart. Some are furred, others scaled. Feathered and also slick like fish bellies. Sometimes like an urchin, bristled, others like a woman, sleek and strong.

The Force is life. And life is confusion as well as growth, chaos and blind, seeking hunger as well as decay and renewal. She's a cancer, ever-expanding and changing, seeking new food. A virus that pierces and lodges deep, uses its host to copy itself until there's more of it than anyone original.

"You're a fucking poet," she says aloud.

He doesn't reply. He's cold and damp, bound to this rock too close to the water line.

"You'll be fine," she says and caresses his cheek. 

She fucks him while the tide comes in, holds him down as ice-slushed brine covers his face. He can't breathe; he can only see her wavering form above the water. She's the tide, too, tangled with kelp and eel, glowing with the Force and crackling with electricity that catches him underwater and makes him jump and spasm.

He breathes in the sea and does not exhale. He sinks, as she still works his cock and twists the Force shaped like a fist deep inside him, and it's dark.

She brings him back, later, when she gets lonely. It's night then and he is sodden, spitting salt and algae.

"You're welcome," she says. "Insolent asshole."

"You _killed_ me."

She shrugs. "You got better."

"What do you want?" he asks when he can breathe again.

"You," she replies. She seems _sharper_ than when he first arrived, more starkly defined, brighter. "Your power."

He squirms. He wriggles. She plucks him bare, follicle and pore, gets him hard again and takes her pleasure with claw and teeth.

There isn't dark and light, Sith and Jedi, hate and fear versus calm and detachment. Those were only ever veils, clumsy attempts to grapple with the wet, slick truth at the bottom of everything. There's only _her_ , the Force, life hungry and run riot.


End file.
